


Dance

by TheRavenintheMoon



Series: Long Lost Souls [23]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Pre-Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9711476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRavenintheMoon/pseuds/TheRavenintheMoon
Summary: Two night elves meet at the lunar festival dance. Pure fluff ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Blizzard owns World of Warcraft. I own Kiri and Mel. 
> 
> I can't believe this is the first I'm writing about this pair. Kirielle featured in "Broken," and Meliraea is making her first appearance here.

**_Dance_**  
_Kirielle and Meliraea_  
  
    The warrior was heavy on her feet, limping more than dancing. For some reason, despite the obvious pain she was in, people kept asking her to join them. Meliraea could not understand why they would ask, let alone why the warrior would accept. And yet, Mel couldn’t help but notice that the tall woman was striking in her party finery, violet tunic swirling much more lightly than the woman herself.  
    Mel’s current partner wasn’t much for conversation, nor was he particularly interested in Mel. He seemed to be much more interested in seeing who was watching, and if any of his…friends…were jealous that he wasn’t dancing with them. Fair enough. Mel wasn’t interested in him either.  
    But she did like to dance. There was a rhythm to the natural world that she found was most easily emulated in both the very quiet moments and the very loud moments. Dancing was…somewhere in between, soft and angled and flowing like a wind in the leaves. It was as pulse pounding as the hunt, or as relaxing as breathing mid-hibernation. Not that she knew anything about that, yet. The Dream was still a long way away for her.  
    She was jolted out her reverie by her partner dropping her hands. The music played on, mid-song and still escalating.  
    “Sorry, honey,” a smooth voice said. “I think this one’s mine.”  
    Mel turned to see one of the women he had been tracking had come up behind her, intentions quite clear in her half-lidded eyes, a smirk playing along painted lips. Mel shrugged, at a loss. It…wasn’t the done thing, to leave someone stranded in the middle of the dance floor. However, it was no great loss to her. She really was only here for the music. The woman seemed a bit put out that Mel wasn’t protesting, wasn’t making a scene, but Mel had always been the sort to let things go.  
    They whirled away, the woman checking surreptitiously to see who was watching. Mel certainly wasn’t. She stepped back, carefully, making her way through the colorful swirl of dancers. She was startled by a hand lightly tapping her shoulder. She turned. The tall warrior with the leg brace bowed slightly, smiling lightly in the face of Mel’s astonishment. “May I?” she asked, offering her arm.  
    “What about—?” Mel couldn’t think of the name of the man the warrior had been dancing with. Someone she ought to know, she was sure, since all of the warrior’s partners had been fairly high profile party members.  
    The warrior flapped a hand. “I happened to chance a comment about manners, and I was told that you weren’t worth the effort. Apparently, he was quite convinced that the only people who matter are those with some monetary or political clout. I dropped him in a heartbeat, since manners are for losers. Would you care to finish the dance?”  
    Mel wanted to say yes, but she was absolutely certain that whoever this warrior was, she wasn’t meant to waste any time on someone like Mel. She opened her mouth to politely decline, to feign a headache at the earlier snub, to—  
    “Yes, thank you.”  
    Mel blinked in confusion at the sound of her own voice as the warrior smiled, and caught her hand. Mel stepped in, hand automatically rising to the warrior’s shoulder before checking herself. “Do you—?”  
    The warrior laughed. “If that’s what you prefer, I don’t mind.” Warmth blazed in her eyes. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, oblivious to the mutters Meliraea caught as they swung past a pair of socialites. Mel tried to block them out, easing into a more comfortable stance, trying not to lean into the hand at her waist. Finding a rhythm was surprisingly easy, despite their somewhat clumsy movement.  
    Mel tripped, just a little, as she realized that, despite her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, she had been attempting to lead, and at a much faster pace than could be easily handled by the limping warrior. Strong hands steadied her.  
    “Are you all right?” the warrior asked.  
    “Me?” Mel blinked. “Are _you_ all right? Surely we—”  
    The warrior smiled. “I can keep up. My healer promised I’d still be standing at the end of the evening, and so far, it’s held.”  
    Mel bit her lip, wondering what she could say. That she, as a healer herself, could feel the other woman’s discomfort? That she didn’t trust any healer who made those sorts of promises? That she thought the warrior looked somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place her face and it was driving her mad?  
    “And here I thought you might be insulted that I was leading out of position,” she quipped lightly, surprised once again at the sound of her own voice.  
    She was rewarded by the warrior’s smile, so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled with it. “No not at all! Lead on, fair maid.” Her tone fell, just a touch. “Forgive me for assuming. It’s just,” she gestured vaguely with their linked hands. “Everyone else seems to assume I’m on the verge of collapse.”  
    Mel tilted her head, confused amusement bubbling into her voice. “You’re no where near that.”  
    The warrior lifted an eyebrow, and Mel realized that the other woman must have as little clue to Mel’s identity as Mel had to hers. She ducked her head, embarrassed. “I’m a healer.”  
    “Ah,” the warrior responded. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of asking for a second opinion mid-festival, but since you seem, mm, sensitive? to my problem…”  
    “Not yours in particular. I mean—” Mel struggled to backtrack. “I have a bad habit of noticing the general aches and pains of those around me. It’s…gotten me in trouble, before, actually, I meant no offense, I just happened to notice that you—well, that you’re in high demand. And hurting. I mean—”  
    The warrior chuckled again, warmly. “Right on both accounts, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Well—my leg, anyway. I’m not sure about the high demand. It’s…unexpected.”  
    “Oh?” Mel asked. But at that moment, the song ended. The world stopped spinning in a cacophony of polite applause for the musicians. A woman stepped up to them, dress a brilliant crimson.  
    “Now that you’ve made your point, perhaps I can interest you in joining our little group for this next dance?” There was something decidedly cold in her glance at Meliraea.  
    The warrior frowned. “What point was that?”  
    “Ah,” the woman started, but the warrior had already turned back to Mel.  
    “So, I think I’d quite like a whole dance with you, if you want. Carry on, or swap hands?” she asked, while the socialite mouthed like a beached fish.  
    Mel thought she might cause less of a stir if she said no. However, she’d never been in a position to make a stir, and honestly, if she couldn’t remember who this warrior was, she couldn’t be that important. Fully in control of her speech, this time, Mel nodded, ducking her head to hide her coy smile, “I’d like that, as well. Carry on, I think.”  
    The warrior caught her hand again, pulling her deeper into the garden of dancers, away from anyone who might make comments. They ended up talking about poetry, dancing most of the rest of the night. And if Mel occasionally slid a careful heal around her partner, the warrior didn’t seem to notice. Mel thought of it as a thank you, silent, subtle, for the long moments where the warrior’s gaze lingered, where her laughter glowed. For the first time, Mel felt as if her modest, emerald dress had been worth the silver saved.  
    When they finally parted, the warrior, swaying a little with renewed pain that Mel felt it would be presumptuous to fix, handed over a card for one of the myriad weapons shops along the blacksmith’s terrace. Mel vaguely recognized the symbol, a raven roosting on a crescent moon. It was one of the more expensive shops, though rumor had it any adventurer worth their salt and starting out could get a decent deal. Mel tucked the card away, embarrassed that she had none. “I’m…I’m just Meliraea. Cresenttide,” she added haltingly. “I’m not really…”  
    “Meliraea,” the warrior said. “That’s lovely. I’m Kirielle Ravensmoon. It was wonderful to meet you.” She pressed a gentle, gallant kiss to the back of Mel’s hand. And then, despite her handicap, she disappeared into the crowd with ease.  
    Mel stood rooted. Ravensmoon. The weaponsmith. The champion of the frozen wastes. She couldn’t contain the giddy bark of laughter that burst from her at the thought. _No wonder_ …  
    Well. The soft light of the Lunar festival lanterns reflected in the waterways of Darnassus as Mel made her way back to the druid’s quarters. Nothing would come of this, she was sure. She had no business meddling in the affairs of heroes. But she rather thought that the odd, swaying step of the warrior’s dance was one that she would remember for festivals to come.


End file.
